TUESDAY, SEPT. 5
Groggy and tired as we left the Airbnb at 6:30am, we quietly carried our bags down the tiny hallway, pulled the door closed behind us, slipped the key under the door and painstakingly carried the luggage down the twisting stairs. We didn’t want to wake the neighbors, and it became exponentially more difficult when the timed lights went out on us.
The air outside was chilly. We rushed down the cobbled, narrow sidewalk with our luggage bumping and clomping behind us, the wheels creating quite a racket on the stones. The bus was to depart from the nearby metro station so it wasn’t far.
We missed one airport bus which left just as we arrived. Pulling our bags by our sides, we took up a spot in line next to three well-manicured girls. They made us feel frumpy and rough on the edges. We weren’t accustomed to wearing the same clothes everyday.
When the bus arrived, and it was late, others pushed in front of us, including an older woman. But we were lucky, the bus driver loaded our bags for us.
In just over an hour, we arrived at Stansted Airport.
RYANAIR
Ryanair charges 11 pounds per extra kilo for luggage over 20 kilos. Our bags weigh just under 75 pounds each, or 34 kilos. The extra cost for our bags together totaled about 300 pounds. When the check-in person explained this, I wished I was the kind of person who cries in public. The overage for the bags equaled the cost of our flight from Vancouver to London.
Concerned on our behalf, the attendant suggested we go back inside the terminal and buy a duffle bag. “An extra bag,” he explained, “will cost less.”
“Is there time?” I asked. “Our flight is at 10:30.” It was already past 9:00. He looked distressed, and after a quick glance at the attendant beside him, he said, “Okay, just put them here.”
Perplexed, I ask, “What?”
“Just put them here. Don’t worry about it,” he said, looking tense. We were stunned by his kindness.
As we walked away, Chloe said, “We need to pass that forward.”
The flight to Dublin took about an hour.
DUBLIN AIRPORT
The line at Dublin airport customs moved quickly. We were so excited to be in Ireland, and expecting to be greeted with the Irish friendliness we’d heard so much about.
We stepped up to a booth with a young woman custom’s officer.
“How long will you be in Ireland?” she asked coldly.
“Five and a half weeks.”
“Do you have a Visa?”
I explained that I understood Canadian citizens don’t need visas when traveling in Ireland.
“Why are you here for so long?” she asked, and I sensed things weren’t going well.
I told her we were taking care of a house and pet sitting.
More questions. How did you get this job? You can’t work in Ireland. This is considered work. Who told you you could do this? You can’t stay for this length of time…
Chloe had backed up behind me, as if this woman might actually physically hurt us. She was quite hostile. And I became visibly nervous, sweating, body language gone from enthusiasm to fear.
“I’ll get my supervisor,” she said, and left the booth. After she walked away, Chloe asked what was going to happen. I said, we may not get in. I was more worried for Fiona, who we were meeting, and her dog, than about us. We could always go some place else.
The supervisor was a man, surprise surprise. He asked the same questions, equally officious, equally cold, and I began to wonder if this was some sort of power trip for them.
How long will you travel in Europe? he asked.
“A year. That’s our plan.” Though still nervous, I couldn’t help but be gleeful.
“Where are you going in Europe?”
“We haven’t really decided. We will decide as we go along. This portion in Ireland is all that has been booked. It’s my daughter’s gap year and we’ve been planning this for a long time.”
How long?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, a couple years.”
“And you don’t know where you are going?” Okay, he was making me feel stupid.
They let us in, but under the condition that we leave on the day Fiona returned, October 17th, and that we send proof of our departure flight.
How many people, who look like us, mother and daughter, are sneaking into Ireland?
NEWLANDS CROSS
Shaken, we gathered our luggage, and headed out of the airport in search of the Airport Hopper. Our hotel, The Maldron, was in Newlands Cross, supposedly just outside Dublin. The Hopper dropped us some distance down the street from the hotel…good times. We dragged our bags across the street and up a long driveway to a simple, 1970s style hotel, that we would soon realize was considered somewhat posh. It isn’t, it is simple. But our room, on the second floor, was very comfortable. We dumped our bags and headed to lunch across the street at Pandini’s, an Italian restaurant.
A new country…it felt strange, our enthusiasm had been squashed by the airport experience, and again we felt that uneasiness that comes from not knowing where things are or how to get around. But we were determined to get to Dublin that day.
To reach the small bus stop, about three blocks from the hotel, we passed a gas station, walked along a fairly busy street, and turned onto a street, lined with unpretentious, single family houses. It was raining lightly. We took the #13 to City Centre. It cost 3.30 euros each way (it had been 3.30 pounds one way in London). The local transportation costs were more than I had anticipated. A roundtrip to the city for both of us was 13 euros.
DUBLIN 1, TRINITY COLLEGE & DONUTS
We missed our stop and instead got off at Trinity College where we walked through the stately campus. It appeared to be Orientation Week by the number of nervous, scurrying students with parents in tow. The campus buildings are powerful, sombre, grey-stone structures that resonate with authority and dignity. The courtyard in the main square is cut through by a broad, tree-lined walkway. The roads are cobblestone.
After covering the length of the campus, we returned to a main street and walked to the River Liffey, where we found a donut shop, The Rolling Donut, and happiness. Vegan donuts included!
From our vantage point on a stone wall near the river, we watched throngs of people, pushing anxiously as they crossed the bridge and rushed to their destinations. Dublin feels cosmopolitan, and surprisingly aggressive.
It was dark when we boarded the bus to return to Newlands Cross. Every seat was taken, and people spoke loudly, a contrast to London.
Toward the end of the ride, about 45 minutes, a mother and daughter, both big faced and blond, who had been chatting non-stop, started talking and joking with us. We could hardly understand them, their accent was so heavy to our ears. Many people speak Gaelic, or use Gaelic words. Even the bus stop announcements were in Gaelic. Something else we hadn’t expected, a foreign language in Ireland.
